


It's Okay to Need Help

by citrusella



Series: Citrusella's "Steven Corruption Theory" Collection [5]
Category: Steven Universe (Cartoon)
Genre: (except... you know... he's always got more work to do), Angst, Augmentative and Alternative Communication (AAC), Communication Disorders, Corrupted Steven Universe, Eventual Happy Ending, Gen, Hopeful Ending, Spoilers for Episode: s06e16 Fragments, Steven Universe Needs Therapy, Word salad
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-25
Updated: 2020-03-25
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:06:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,327
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23306518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/citrusella/pseuds/citrusella
Summary: "Everybody needs support sometimes, and you need support right now, with this. And that's okay." She takes a deep breath. "It's okay to need help, Steven."Or: (Based in corrupted Steven theory as well as taking inspiration/using characteristics from a fic bylove_killed_the_superstar) Sometime after coming back from corruption, Steven sees a therapist to try to hammer out some lingering issues.
Series: Citrusella's "Steven Corruption Theory" Collection [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1518434
Comments: 6
Kudos: 86
Collections: The Cluster Writers' Fic Collection, lofi fanfics to practice social distancing to





	It's Okay to Need Help

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [I’m Not In Love With My Absence](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22192933) by [love_killed_the_superstar](https://archiveofourown.org/users/love_killed_the_superstar/pseuds/love_killed_the_superstar). 



> First off, this chapter contains a major Fragments spoiler!
> 
> Moreover, I feel the need to explain some things here in the notes so that you aren't confused by them when they show up in the fic (strap in, it's long--skip to the end of the note if you don't particularly care about context):
> 
> So at some point in this fic, a character will use an AAC device, which is a fancy acronym for (in this case) a tablet app thing with buttons and a keyboard that allow for text-to-speech type functionalities.
> 
> I used a real AAC system, [Essence](https://www.prentrom.com/prc_advantage/essence-language-system), as the system used in the fic, and I actually entered all the dialog spoken using the system in a demo/tool program for working with all the AAC systems the company that offers Essence (Prentke Romich Company/PRC) has. (Why did I have the demo program in the first place? I was trying to learn a different system in it that's used with some students at the school I work at, since school is canceled right now and I have nothing else monopolizing my time.)
> 
> Here is an image of the "word board" used, for reference purposes:
> 
>   
> (This image is almost identical to the default "144 button spaces with core words enabled" layout--I just added a "some" button that leads to options for "something", "someone", and "somewhere" both because I was playing around AND because in my testing I was using "something" a lot. Putting it where it is was a mistake because that column is where alternate forms of the verbs to the left pop up and cover anything in that zone. XP Oh well. /tangent)
> 
> I entered the dialog into into the actual AAC in order to get a realistic feel for how it would be typed and produced, so in my draft doc, I had words/phrases highlighted by how they were generated. I threw my draft up in a Discord server I'm in to get feedback on it, and love-killed-the-superstar said it gave it more of a feel for how it was being typed, too.
> 
> So anyhow, this is all a long-winded way of saying that the work skin adds highlighting according to the following legend:
> 
> pink: words that, as far as I can tell, _must_ be spelled (they might appear on the word prediction area if they're in the dictionary and enough letters are typed)  
> orange: showed up on prediction after prior word without typing any letters (even if they have their own button onscreen)  
> yellow: words selected using a preexisting button or button sequence on screen  
> green: words from the "conversation starters" subpage  
> blue: words from the "quick messages" subpage
> 
> If you're not interested in having words highlighted according to these rules, you can just disable the work skin. Lines written using the AAC device will appear in **bold** even if the skin is disabled.

Steven lies curled up on the couch. The therapist is saying something, but none of his attention is trained on her.

The— _his_ mind is being especially loud, especially out-of-phase today. She repeats herself, then quiets for a moment. As she speaks again, Steven tries, _really tries_ , to focus, in case it's important.

"Let's step out of what we're trying to work through, and I'll just ask: are you okay?"

"Mm. Fine." He keeps his reply short, hoping to avoid sounding like a mess to Dr. Brooks.

But then, he probably looks one anyway. Stupid blotches, stupid face, stupid everything, curled up on a couch, her other patients probably don't curl up, they sit up like respectable, civilized people ready to talk about their problems, in _real_ sentences, that make _sense_ , they—

"You haven't responded to the last five things I've said, and you've been staring at the wall behind me for two minutes. Maybe try for honesty this time?" Her voice is admonishing but gentle.

A sigh. "…Uh. I… um… warmer." He grimaces and rubs a bare arm, choosing to stick with his clearly wrong statement instead of trying to correct it and potentially making it worse.

Dr. Brooks cocks an eyebrow and takes him for what he really means. "Well, you look freezing. Sure you don't want a blanket? They're nice and heavy. Or I could just crank up the thermostat. Your decision."

He _is_ freezing. He didn't bring his signature organic jacket today, and without its welcome weight on his shoulders, he's tense, chilled.

He lets out a hum. "Blanket."

She smiles. "Good choice. Fair warning, though, they're not the kind you can buy at Gurgen's; they're more like the cheap kind you get from a sensory therapy warehouse or something. Perfectly good, just kinda institutional." She pulls a folded blanket from a cabinet and places it beside him. "That's as far as I can take it, man; you gotta do the rest." She sits in a nearby chair.

He pulls it over himself, its bulk—it must be nearly 20 pounds—pushing him down into the couch. Something about the sensation quiets the parts of his mind competing for his attention and makes him sit up, perk up, a tad.

"I was thinking we could talk through more of what happened, but am I right in thinking you're not up for that?"

Steven nods. "Yah—yes." He runs his hand across the blue felt-ish fabric now covering his crossed legs and half of his left arm.

"You seem like you're thinking about _some_ thing though. You interested in telling me what's got Steven Universe so quiet today?"

He debates holding steady on his mostly-silence, courting the idea of pulling the blanket over his head and burying himself in the pressure, but he knows, rationally, that that wouldn't achieve anything. Even if nothing about what's happened, nothing about what he _did_ , is rational.

"Particular the—mind blame, it's kills— _shatter_ nose. Nose." He exhales, frowns, and looks straight into Dr. Brooks' eyes.

It's not hard for the psychologist to put the two and two together as to why he's been talking almost entirely in one or two word statements today. She returns his stare with her best attempt at an understanding gaze. "Sounds stressful. Do you wanna talk about it?"

No. Not particularly. He doesn't wanna _talk_ about anything, not while everything's so jumbled like this. And—it's worse, because he didn't even actually go _back_ this time, there's no reason for his mind to be a mixing bowl of words and thoughts and numbers and how long has he been in here—he can't tell if it's been a few seconds or a few _hours_ —it's—

"Steven," Dr. Brooks cuts in, her voice polite but urgent, "I'd like to suggest you take a few deep breaths and calm down—not because I don't think you should have the space to express yourself whatever way works; I just think it's a violation of your HIPAA rights if we have to hold your session in the parking lot."

The joke doesn't land, and his brow furrows until he looks down and sees a larger, pinker Steven than the one that walked into the office today. He tries to do as instructed.

"If it's affecting you enough that you're doing what Dr. Maheswaran described in your file, it might be helpful to talk about it. I can't force it, but that's my own two cents."

Steven places his focus on the green hem of the weighted blanket, pinching it between his ~~claws~~ fingers, as if he can't handle more input than its soft, basic colors while he's trying to squeeze a coherent sentence out.

"Jasper, she… said—I'm… Diamond." Too many pauses, too much waiting. If he tries to say it like this, it'll take forever! Of course, letting up at the pitiful attempt at corralling his runaway brain onto a half-understandable track isn't really an option if he wants to be understood, but it's all he's got. "It—wait, mysterious—" _groan_ "seventy _gem_ " facepalm, just move on, Universe! " _something_ , _do_ something, I remember, today—" a grimace, "— _that_ day, monster, I'm horrible!"

—And with that, he shrinks into the couch, can't even get out a simple response about what Jasper did, how it _sent him back_ , she didn't mean it, she's over it, she _is_ , but why is he not? He's—

It's been _months_. She's over it. He's Steven now. He is. Again. But one little—one _tiny_ —it's… he's back there, the day it happened. Unhinged. Uncaring.

Unhuman. _In_ human? Bleh.

He pulls more of the blanket's heft over his torso. It… helps. If "helping" means he's not flashing pink or bursting into tears or something.

Dr. Brooks purses her lips and tries to address the clearest parts of his explanation as tactfully as she can. "I think it could be wise moving forward if we remember what we've learned about self-talk? How it can affect you?" Steven lets out a solemn nod. "I know it's hard for you to avoid seeing yourself as a monster sometimes—especially with the reminders on your person like they are—but it's helpful to remember there are things you can do to counteract those kinds of thoughts. People you can…" she chooses her words carefully, "communicate with."

Steven pouts. He knows she's right, but letting it hit him like this feels easier than opening up about it, being vulnerable, needing… help.

"Speaking of, you might find it less frustrating to talk about if we use something more hands on, like writing or drawing or maybe playing with props? I got a whole box of G.U.Y.S. and G.A.L.S! Or B.O.Y.S. if you're more pretentious." He feels neither young enough for G.U.Y.S. nor Ronaldo enough for B.O.Y.S., and the idea of holding a pencil when he feels like he's backslipping so hard is unappealing; besides, he's never tried writing when he's like this, and he's not keen on starting now, when he's not even sure it'll work.

He wrinkles his nose, and Dr. Brooks' suggestions change direction. "Ooh, or I could call down to the speech path clinic, see if they got any communication devices that might be easy to use on such short notice."

He looks at her with a face of half-offense and crosses his arms under the blanket.

"No, maybe ready tall… speaking? Or—" he pulls his right hand out and gestures but doesn't sign anything specific (though his repertoire is admittedly small, given that he and Connie have only had a few weeks' practice yet), "hands?"

(He knows that to some extent the signs jumble, too, when he's like this, but he's counting on the fact that Dr. Brooks does not know this.)

A rare occurrence, her voice comes stern, matter-of-fact, her hands clasped on her lap as she looks him dead in the eye. "I know you want to persevere with what you're doing right now and pretend it's working, but you know and I know that that's not the truth. We need to understand each other if we're going to get anything done, and I think we have enough time left in our appointment that we can get a lot accomplished if we really work at it. So if you're not interested in moving away from language-based options, I think me calling down there is your best bet. Doesn't mean you've gotta use it forever or take it home or that I think you aren't capable. It's just that everybody needs support sometimes, and you need support right now, with this. And that's okay." She takes a deep breath. "It's okay to need help, Steven."

He averts his eyes, looking at a bend in the blanket fabric, and makes no attempt at another sound or word.

She walks to her desk and picks up the phone but merely hovers her fingers over the numbers. "I won't call down there unless you okay it. You willing to give it a shot?"

He pauses, then nods.

"Sweet! I was starting to feel like I was just talking to myself," she smirks, her tone returning to its much more cordial baseline. A smirk of his own barely works its way onto Steven's face in return, not that she can see more than the crown of his head the direction he's looking.

She makes the call.

* * *

Once the tablet from down the hall is (begrudgingly, apparently, by the look on the face of the person bringing it into the office) in his hands, Dr. Brooks makes a simple suggestion.

"Maybe you could try telling me what was bothering you again? I picked up the jist before, but I think I'm missing the nuance. Plus it'll help us see if this is a viable strategy. And if it's not, then hey—we tried!" She offers up her most encouraging, Mom-like smile.

Steven gives his best (if somewhat pitiful) attempt at a determined huff, pressing at a few areas of the screen as if to acquaint himself with the device's layout and functions—he can see it has a keyboard, some words, and a few menus of phrases, at a glance—before concentrating on getting something substanceful out.

He bites his tongue in determination, setting to spelling out the first word he wants to get out, as he sees no other way to enter it. **" M-o-n—"** The tablet speaks each letter aloud as he types it, but he's glad to find it only takes three letters before the device is suggesting the word he wants in its prediction area. **" Months—"** It's already predicted his next word before he's even typed anything more. **"— ago."** He inhales. **"Months ago."** It's a start.

His next word has its own dedicated button. **" All—"** A prediction, again. **"— over."**

**"All over."**

More spelling. **" S-Still—"** Another two dedicated buttons. **"— feel—bad."**

**"Still feel bad."**

With an exhale, he wonders if maybe there's a faster way to say the next sentence. He taps through a few of the phrase menus and settles on a "conversation starter" that's not the _exact_ wording he wants but is close enough. **" I just remembered."**

He tries not to seem exasperated as he finds himself spelling again—should he really be so frustrated when these are supposed to be short, easy things? **" J-a-s-p-e-r—"** Her name's not in the tablet's prediction dictionary. Sigh. At least the next two words are a single press away. **"— did—some-something."** Strike that, the last word is _two_ presses (one for "some", one to convert it to "something"… _the horror_ ).

**"Jasper did something."**

Home stretch. One more sentence. **" M-a-made—"** He falls into a rhythm, hitting buttons and predictions as if to some kind of beat. Sour Cream would be proud. **"— me—think—of—it."**

**"Made me think of it."**

…He appreciates his work.

**"Months ago. All over. Still feel bad. I just remembered. Jasper did something. Made me think of it."**

It's taken a tad longer than he anticipated and comes out stilted, but… it's… words. Understandable ones, at that—even if half the credit has to go to the word prediction feature for helping the process along, like a slightly beefier version of his phone's autocorrect. He's on the verge of perhaps the mellowest starry-eyed look he's ever managed to muster, at least until Dr. Brooks, clearly pushing down her own excitement at this development in favor of being all business instead, pulls him back to earth, refocuses him on the actual content of his words.

"Are you up for sharing what she made you think of?" She can infer that Jasper is a gem, but otherwise, she's in the dark.

A few sounds—words he backtracks on before they ever get the chance to be wrong—exit his mouth before he turns back to the tablet again, looking at his options for a second before choosing a phrase. **" Let me tell you what I did."**

 **" I… s—"** His attempt at opening up comes to a sudden halt when the word isn't front and center on the prediction with a press of the very first letter, as if typing any more with his own hand would be admission of an unforgivable sin, a crime beyond punishment.

The weight of the blanket on his lap grounding him in the present, keeping him from falling _too_ deeply into the almost photographic memory of the leadup to that moment, and the gentle nudge in the right grammatical direction from the tablet… they make it easier for him to talk about it, but that doesn't mean they make it possible.

Maybe it's time to fall back. He sets the tablet aside and grabs a section of blanket altogether too tightly in his hands. He opens his mouth.

"Kill… murder— _shatter_! Shatter, shatter, shatter, shatter, shatter! _Aaaaah!_ " As soon as his brain comes across the right word, he wrenches his train of thought sideways, derails it, slams it into the wall as many times as he thinks the intensity of the situation warrants to make himself understood, until the locomotive is nothing but a steaming mess of twisted metal.

The only reason he's not crying, sobbing, is because he's huffing and puffing as if he's just finished a 3K. Practically hyperventilating, actually, trying to keep his response muted enough that he's not turning pink and destroying half the room.

Dr. Brooks frowns. "…That's what you mean to say, right?"

A frantic nod, hands at the sides of his head.

It's not hard for Dr. Brooks to tell, from the words that always seem to lead to it when he says it, what shattering entails.

Her words come entwined in a practiced unjudging tone. "Okay… and… did someone get shattered?" A nod. She treads especially delicately with her next query. "Did… you shatter someone?" Again, an almost anxious affirmative.

"J-Jasper." A sniffing almost-sob accompanies the name as it falls on the room.

Dr. Brooks ruminates on his answer a moment, hand to her chin, then gently asks, "You said she did something to make you… remember her shattering. Do you mean you thought about something she did? Or is it possible to bring a gem back, from that?"

A beat, eyes wide.

"I efficient—distilled—better cry— _upset_ —" Sigh.

Two, three, four.

He pulls the tablet back into his lap.

 **" With h-e-a—healing bath. All right."** He omits the skittish searching for each shard, the fervored run to the house, his breaking down over a tub filled with the diamonds' essence—and it really truly _was_ filled, because he'd tossed the whole bottles in and wasn't _that_ such a great idea considering what happened so soon after?

—It would take too long to type all that, he's sure.

"So… you healed her, but she did something that reminded you of the day you did that? I'm still following?" He nods. "Heavy. How do you think we should deal with this, Steven?"

He frowns, paging through the words at his disposal and then deciding on a "quick message" that sounds practically sassy coming out of Steven of all people. **" Can that wait?"**

Dr. Brooks raises an eyebrow. "Are you looking to avoid talking about it forever?"

Steven lets out a silent, humorless laugh. **" No, I want to talk to you about some-something else."**

She hums. "What did you have in mind? Must be important if you're pushing something that's affecting you this much aside."

He purses his lips in frustrated thought—he wants to say this aloud, but that's the whole problem. He types in a somewhat-shorthand, avoiding spelling as much as he can.

 **" Who—"** _delete_ **" H-o-how to say if my—"** he's about to tap into a subpage and try to find "mouth" but notices a suggestion in the word prediction and chooses it instead, **" mind is bad?"**

The doctor's brow furrows but Steven is hard at work continuing. **" Why do feel-feeling—think-thought have to m-make me…"** he pauses as if to give his sentence a dramatic flair, **" this? What can help me with that?"** He looks up at her, solemn but pensive.

"…Good questions." Dr. Brooks mentally plans the best way to compose her response. "Okay. First off: Your mind isn't bad. Never has been, never will be. No one's is. I'm sure it's probably not easy to describe how this kind of thing affects you, but I'm gonna be blunt: Quit calling yourself 'bad'. That's your homework." Steven's brows rise. "Yes, you get homework. I try to play that 'cool teacher' vibe and pretend I don't assign any, but the truth is it can be important, even make or break." She wrinkles her nose and puts her answer to him back on its track.

"As for the why, I'm afraid I don't have any more clue than you do. I know you said during intake that it could happen when you're coming out of the corruption, but I take it that's not what's happening here." He shakes his head. "It could—and this is just a hypothesis—be connected to your emotions, then, since you seem to have noticed a connection between your feelings and what you're thinking about and when this picks up, but it's not like it's healthy to avoid it, so I think working through your stressors and learning to deal with them is probably our game plan here, just like it was before. As for helping you work toward that goal when you're like this, helping you communicate when you're like this… I think that device was pretty useful, would you agree?"

His eyes rest on it for a moment, and then he answers with a nod, "…Yeah."

"Unfortunately, I think if you were going to use it more consistently, you'd probably have to schedule an appointment with a speech pathologist, and that's not something I can do for you. That's something you'll have to talk to your dad or the gems about, I think. Might be helpful, though—if it was yours, officially, you'd be able to learn your way around it more, communicate more easily on days like today, customize it, that kind of thing. Hrm. Maybe consider adding discussing that to your homework, too," she says jovially.

"And I—" she leans forward and stands, "will make it my homework to remember that we're addressing that Jasper thing next week, because your time is up." He shrinks a bit at the reminder, but he doesn't get far before Dr. Brooks does the verbal equivalent of shaking his tired-looking shoulders. "Help me get the blanket back in the cabinet, maybe?" He concedes and rises, helping her fold it and stow it away.

"Okay. Now go do your homework," she says in an almost mom-like voice as she sits behind her desk.

Steven smiles solemnly. "Bye, Dr. Maheswaran— _Brooks!_ Brooks!" He blushes in embarrassment.

Dr. Brooks shakes her head with a chuckle. "Bye, Steven."

**Author's Note:**

> ...Not what feels like my best work, but proud of it nonetheless.
> 
> Dr. Brooks, as always, was created by [CoreyWW](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CoreyWW%22). Big thanks to [love_killed_the_superstar](https://archiveofourown.org/users/love_killed_the_superstar/pseuds/love_killed_the_superstar) again, both for the Secret Santa fic that inspired the vibe this fic is taking on, and for taking a look at my drafts.
> 
> Also, my goodness, I am never putting _49 span tags_ (59 if you count the pre-chapter note!) in a fic ever again!!
> 
> Also also, I had to select almost every option for everything when posting this fic, phew! o.o
> 
> (There will be a chapter 2 (at least), but it will (probably) not be the "let's address the Jasper thing next week" plot.)


End file.
